


A Day in the Life

by LilyPale (SlashGirlWeb)



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, Pre-Slash, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlashGirlWeb/pseuds/LilyPale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin takes a chance on Douglas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The hotel was nicer than usual. By mistake, of course. Another of those lucky situations when the decrepit hotel Carolyn had booked them into the last time they were here had been torn down and rebuilt, and hadn’t had time to fall apart yet.

Which meant that the double room that Martin and Douglas were sharing was nice. So nice that it had a small sofa for watching television. It was almost time to go to bed, and they were both in their pajamas. Douglas was surfing the channels for something they could both stand to watch while Martin nervously peeled the label off his beer. Martin took a deep breath. _Might as well do it now,_ he thought. Now or never. Strike while the iron is hot. No time like the present. _Good God, stop thinking about stupid sayings and get on with it!_

“Say, Douglas?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t been pulling many girls lately.”

“Why, thank you for noticing. How kind of you to mention these little details about my love life.”

Of course, that was the wrong way to go about it. Damn. “I mean, you usually won’t let me into me the room until midnight whenever we’re sharing. So, you know, I, I was just wondering if everything was all right.”

Martin kept his eyes carefully fixed on the TV screen, heard Douglas take a breath, blow it out. “Yes, well, as it turns out, even sky gods are not all powerful, and have their limitations.”

“Ah. So, not looking for your fourth wife, to keep up with Herc?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

Douglas had finally settled on a headline news show. Martin could see out of the corner of his eye that he was facing rigidly forward, his jaw tight.

“It’s just because anyone would be lucky to be with you. And if the girls you’re interested in aren’t interested back, it’s their loss. I just wanted to say, that’s all.” The words had spilled out in a rush, not at all as smoothly as Martin had imagined. Hoped.

Douglas turned to look at him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up in anticipation. He looked at Douglas, feeling his face flush.

“What?” he asked innocently.

“Just how long did you practice that speech. And why?”

“It’s, it’s, it’s not p-p-practiced,” Martin lied. Damn his stutter. Why did it always come out when he was nervous?

Douglas’s eyes narrowed infinitesimally and he clicked off the TV. “Martin, are you trying to tell me something?”

The sudden silence was shocking, as if all the air had rushed out of the room.

“Erm, ah. . . .” _Oh, good going, Crieff._ No, it’s okay, don’t panic. Just start again. Why hadn’t he thought about what he’d have to say next? “Um, ah, you see, the thing is, that, um—”

“Because if you are,” Douglas continued, as if Martin hadn’t been stumbling over his tongue for half a minute, “I need to tell you I’m sorry, but no.” Douglas’ face had transformed from a frozen mask to a soft look of pity. Martin felt like he might be sick.

“No,” he managed, “no, that’s not it.” He sounded frantic, even to himself, and his voice seemed to have gone up an octave. He knew he was bright red. “I just wanted to tell you that, ah, you should, you know, you should, erm, you shouldn’t worry if—”

Douglas patted his hand and stood up, smiling paternally. “Let’s just turn in, shall we? We have a long flight tomorrow.” He went over to his bed and got in. Martin couldn’t seem to move. God, how stupid was he? How could he have thought that Douglas would be interested in him? Time kept passing, the years kept ticking by, but he still couldn't get his life going. He was still ridiculous and undesirable. And he’d always be. And that was the most humiliating thing he’d done to himself in a long time.

He sighed and stood up. Douglas lay on his right side, facing away from Martin’s side of the room. Douglas usually slept on his left side. He went into the bathroom, poured out the last of his beer and rinsed the bottle. No stale beer smell to face in the morning. Just himself. He got into the bed, turned out the lamp and stared at the ceiling by the light coming into the room where the curtains didn't quite meet, waiting for sleep.


	2. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas considers some consequences.

Martin wasn’t in their room when the wakeup call rang. The only evidence that he’d been there was the rumpled bed. He wasn’t at the breakfast buffet eating enough for three people, as he usually did. Douglas finally found him in the pilots’ lounge, filling out the flight plan. He looked exhausted. Not that Douglas had slept much, either.

As Douglas dropped into the half-broken plastic chair opposite, Martin’s eyes flicked up to him and back to the paperwork, his expression somewhere between blank and helpless. Martin worked silently for so long that Douglas began to shift uncomfortably.

“Are we good for our slot?”

“Should be.” Martin's voice was quiet, but without reproach or rancor.

“Shall I do the walk-around?”

“Yes, please.”

Douglas creaked up out of the chair again, picked up his flight bag, and headed out to Gerti. He was due to operate out. It would be an uphill battle on two hours of sleep. After feigning sleep and half-dozing all night, listening to Martin sigh and thrash in the dark.

It’s not as if he hadn’t seen it coming. Martin had been giving off obvious, clumsy signals. Touching Douglas’ arm or thigh when they talked. Bringing him coffee and pastry—which he couldn’t afford—when they were stuck in the portacabin on standby. Talking about books he was reading, asking for Douglas’ opinion. He should have taken the initiative himself, headed Martin off before he had enough confidence to open his mouth. That would have been much smarter, and much easier on Martin. And a much better plan for Douglas Richardson.

Because becoming involved with Martin wouldn’t be a good move for him, not by a long shot. He'd grown oddly attached to Martin in the last year. Martin had become more confident and relaxed since coming to MJN, growing into himself as his piloting skills improved. Douglas found himself enjoying the time he spent with him on the flight deck, and even the endless hours stuck in the portacabin. He'd found himself yearning—yearning!—to spend even more time with him. He’d daydreamed about taking him to the opera, admiring the way the tuxedo showed up his trim form and standing close to him, straightening his boutonniere, fixing an errant curl. About lounging with him on a tropical beach and taking evening walks along the shore, arms around each other’s waists and stumbling in the surf as they kissed. About bedding him, using every technique he’d ever learned until Martin was pink and sweaty and breathless, his eyes and lips and cock heavy with satiation.

But it would give Laura far too much ammunition at the next parenting hearing. Their family judge was extremely conservative. And even if the judge didn’t care that he was in a relationship with another man, being with Martin would offer plenty of ammunition for Laura’s lawyer. _Look at the age gap. Getting involved with a co-worker; highly unprofessional and possibly jeopardizing whatever remains of his career. An unstable home environment—who could tell when the lover might come over, or be replaced by another._ It would mean the end of unsupervised visits with Emily. Possibly all visits.

And there was the fact that Martin deserved better than First Officer Douglas Richardson. Old enough to be his father. Aging lothario and unsuccessful small-time smuggler. With three divorces and a young daughter. Oh, and an alcoholic, by the way. Jesus. If Martin had given himself more time, hadn’t jumped at the first relationship he felt strong enough to manage, he would have realized what a bad job Douglas was, and set his sights much higher.


	3. Plan B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin picks himself up and starts planning for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is turning into a long, meandering fic and I'm not sure where it's going. So naturally I thought I'd post some of the chapters I've written and ask for your thoughts. Thank you!

Martin’s plan for a deeper relationship with Douglas had failed. Funny how he went through life having only one plan for critical life decisions. About his career. About the man he wanted to be with. The two most important decisions he’d ever have. No fallback, no plan B.

Well, one out of two wasn’t bad. He was a pilot, a captain. He’d got that, and he’d got it by the sweat of his brow. Something he could be proud of. Well, he’d gotten his captaincy by begging, but Carolyn wouldn’t have hired him, and she certainly wouldn’t have bothered to keep him on, if he weren’t a decent pilot. Even if Douglas had rebuffed him in the clearest possible way, he was still a pilot, a captain. Until MJN folded. Then he wouldn’t be anything.

And he’d been terribly afraid that he’d damaged their friendship. Well, their purely professional camaraderie, as he now knew. But Douglas had been civil, even kind. Keeping things just as they had been. Continuing to suggest clever word games and beating him soundly at them, teasing him about everything that attracted his attention. And at least now he knew they’d never have a real friendship. That was helpful. Knowing where the boundaries were.

But he was sick to death of being alone. He didn’t want to live in his attic studio all his life, watching generations of students go on to useful, happy lives. He was in his mid-thirties. Maybe it was time to develop a plan B. Find someone to love him. Oh, didn’t that just sound needy and pathetic. Find someone to love? No, that wasn’t right, either. Who would look to him to love them? It’s not as if he’d bring a lot to a relationship. Well, how about just “find someone.” That surely wasn’t aiming too high. It should be achievable, even for him.


	4. Friday in the Portacabin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Martin learns something about Douglas’ home life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note updated Rating and Archive Warnings, which I've assigned for future chapters.

Time stretched infinitely on Friday afternoons when they’d been on standby all week. This one was no exception. By four-thirty, Douglas had most of Martin’s and Arthur’s pennies in front of him after fewer hands of rummy than seemed possible when the portacabin door flew open, letting the wind and rain gust in. Martin turned to see a woman in a drenched Burberry—at least it looked expensive enough to be a Burberry—ostentatiously holding an umbrella over a girl dressed in a yellow rain hat and slicker, both with cartoon ladybugs, and yellow wellies. Martin thought the outfit looked too young on the girl. Not that he knew much about children.

The woman folded up the umbrella and her bright red nails clutched the girl’s shoulder. “Remember what we discussed,” she whispered loudly into her ear.

“Yes, Mummy,” the girl agreed. She was missing some teeth, which gave her a lisp.

Her eyes on Douglas, the girl walked up to Arthur, who was closest to the door. “Excuse me, I’m looking for _Mr_ Douglas Richardson.” The woman smirked as the girl emphasized “Mr.” Douglas sighed and laid down his hand.

“Um, um, ah, um,” Arthur said, turning nervously between the girl and Douglas.

“It’s all right, Arthur. Laura.” He acknowledged the woman with a nod. “Emily, darling! I’m so happy to see you!” Then he was positively running around the table, his face beatific. He pulled Emily’s yellow rain hat off and flung it away, scattering rain everywhere, and scooped her up, turning in a circle and singing “You Are My Sunshine.” She was giggling and saying “put me down, Daddy, put me down!” as her pigtails flew.

The yellow rain hat landed on Laura’s stilettos. She lifted it on her toe, scowling, and kicked it into the corner.

Carolyn flung open her office door, her mobile pressed to her chest. “Shut up, you idiots! I am speaking with a client—” and stopped, staring at her First Officer cavorting with a wet child, and at the woman.

“Oh, Carolyn,” Douglas said, coming to a breathless stop. “Carolyn, you remember my daughter, Emily Richardson. Emily, do you remember Mrs Knapp-Shappey? She’s the evil queen who employs Daddy.”

Emily, suddenly serious, said, “how do you do,” enunciating as carefully as if she were Eliza Doolittle, and stuck out her hand. Carolyn reached up and shook it, echoing “how do you do? My, Emily, how you’ve grown since I last saw you!” Emily giggled at her.

“And, Carolyn, I’m sure you remember Laura Belville, formerly Laura Richardson, who is just leaving.”

“Of course I remember. Pleasure to see you again.” The two women arranged their faces into polite smiles, nodded briefly to each other. “Just keep it down while I'm on the phone, will you?” Carolyn looked between Douglas, Emily, and Laura as she stepped back inside her office and closed the door.

“Well, Douglas,” Laura said, “since you’re so eager to see me gone, you’ll be happy to know that I’ve already put her luggage in your car. In the pouring rain.”

“Thank you. How delightful to know that you still have a key to my car.”

“It comes in handy.”

“I’ll just keep checking the boot for bodies, then.”

Douglas bent down and Emily alit from his arms as gracefully as if descending from a royal carriage.

“So funny, Douglas, as always. I’ve left a folder of information on the driver’s seat. Emily’s pediatrician, dentist, and other health professionals. Summer-term supplemental schoolwork, and so on. My sister’s address and phone number for when Emily’s at the summer arts program. And our schedule, with complete contact information.”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s excruciatingly complete. Well, bye now. You don’t want to keep Paul waiting.”

“As well as a daily phone-in schedule.”

“Of course. Can’t leave a child with her father without ensuring that he hasn’t misplaced her, or forgot to feed her, sold her into slavery, or any of the million elaborate catastrophes that you constantly imagine.”

“What I _expect,_ Douglas, is that you hold up your end of the parenting agreement,” Laura said, tapping the end of the umbrella very hard on the floor. “Oh, and don’t worry—I put a copy of it into Emily’s care folder. Just in case you’ve _forgotten_ any details, or _lost_ your copy.”

“For verily I say unto you, till heaven and earth pass, one jot or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the parenting agreement, till all be fulfilled.” Douglas made a theatrical bow. Emily giggled and tried to turn it into a cough, and Martin saw Douglas wink at her.

“Just be sure that you fulfill that agreement, Douglas. I don’t want to have to come back in a rush from the other side of the world to take care of things. Like the last time she was with you.”

“Yes, you wouldn’t want your lovely jet-setting summer disrupted by an _actual_ medical emergency. I completely understand.” Douglas’ cheeks were pinking now and his voice was getting tight. Emily was looking at the floor and undoing her slicker. Arthur looked like he wanted to disappear. As did Martin.

Laura opened her mouth, then closed it. She took a deep breath and said, “Douglas, I don’t want to discuss this any more. Just follow the directions, will you? Emily, come here and kiss mummy goodbye.” Emily had gotten her slicker off. She was wearing what looked like a party dress. It didn’t have bows on, and it wasn’t frilly, but even Martin could tell it was a party dress. It looked posh, like a scaled-down copy of a woman’s frock with a swinging sixties sort of pattern that was fashionable again. Dragging her wet slicker, Emily walked toward Laura.

“Emily, how many times must I tell you to take care of your things? Don’t drag your coat across the floor.” Emily jerked her arm up, lifting the coat above her head. She looked around, trying to see what to do with it. Arthur took it from her, saying, “I’ll hang it up for you, okay?” She nodded as Arthur took it, then she went over to her mother. Laura bent down and Emily air-kissed her on one cheek, then the other.

“Bye, Mummy. I hope you have a good summer.”

“You call me any time you need to, all right, darling? Any time of the day or night. I’ve programmed my number into your emergency mobile.”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“Promise?”

“Promise, Mummy.”

“There’s my good girl. Just show mummy that you have your mobile.” Emily opened the matching purse slung over her shoulder. “Excellent,” Laura cooed. “Now, you be good while you’re with Daddy and I’ll see you just before school starts. All right?”

“Yes, Mummy.”

Laura kissed Emily’s cheek and stroked her hair, then straightened. “Don’t forget the daily call schedule, Douglas,” she said, her hand on the doorknob.

“I will adhere to it as if my life depended on it,” Douglas said, hand over his heart. Laura made a disgusted face, then she was gone in another gust of wind and rain.

“Happy summer, Emily!” Douglas crowed as Emily laughed and jumped up and down. “Now, let's greet Martin and Arthur. Emily, this is Captain Martin Crieff, under whom I have the privilege of serving as First Officer. You can tell he’s the captain by the four bands on his jacket sleeve and by the enormous weight of gold braid on his cap. Though he isn’t wearing either of those right now.”

Just as she’d done with Carolyn, Emily held out her hand and said, “how do you do?” Martin was surprised that Douglas didn’t lie about his rank to Emily. He lied about it to just about everyone else.

“How do you do,” he said. “Delighted to meet you, Miss Richardson.”

“You can call me Emily,” she said, very serious.

“And you can call me—”

“Captain Crieff,” Douglas interrupted. “Or Martin, very, very occasionally. Just not ‘hey, you.’ Am I right, Chief?”

“Ye-es,” Martin said. He felt like something was going on but he couldn’t grasp what it was. As usual.

“And you remember Arthur Shappey, MJN’s Chief Steward.”

“Oh, I didn’t know I was ‘Chief Steward!’ But it makes sense, doesn’t it? Cause I’m the only one, and all.” Arthur grinned at Douglas and shook Emily’s outstretched hand. “You can call me Arthur. ‘Mr Shappey’ is my Dad. Would you like a Toblerone?”

“Yes, please!”

“Good! Mum keeps them locked in her filing cabinet because I’m not supposed to eat too many sugary things. It gives her a headache. But since we have a guest, I’ll bet she’ll let us have some.” He’d hung up Emily’s slicker and hat on the coat hook and was through Carolyn’s door before Martin could take his next breath.

“Do you remember what we’re doing first, Em?”

“Yes, Daddy!” Emily turned to him and hopped up and down, grinning like a fool.

“Let’s get you out of that dress and into some clothes that you can get chocolate on. Then we’ll go out to the plane. I’ll go get your case and you can pick out whatever you want to wear.”

Douglas went out into the storm and Martin was alone with Emily. She turned to him.

“Daddy told me you landed the aeroplane on one engine after a goose flew into it,” she said. She was pulling her hair out of its plaits.

“Um. Yes. I did.”

“Daddy said you did a really good job. He said he couldn’t have done better himself.”

“Really?” Martin was surprised. Douglas had never said anything like that to him. Not that he had any reason to.

Emily was sitting the floor, pulling off her wellies. She had glittery party shoes on. “Yup.”

Arthur came back in with an armful of Toblerones. “Here we go!” he beamed, dropping them onto the table.

“Daddy said I have to wait until I’m changed,” Emily said, dashing to the table to look at them.

“But you can _pick_ one now, right?” Arthur said. “There’s all three types, regular and dark and white chocolate.”

“Which one do you like?”

“I like the regular, cause you can always find those.”

“Can I have one of those, then?”

“Sure!”

Douglas came in lugging an immense suitcase that was big enough to hold an adult’s clothing for a month. “Why don’t you pick out something you like and go change in Carolyn’s office. She can help you if you need it.”

“I can dress myself, Daddy, I’m not a child.” She had the case unzipped and was digging through the clothes.

“Of course not, sweetheart. Don’t forget shoes. You don’t want to go out into the wet in those.”

“Nope. I hate these.” She knocked on Carolyn’s door and disappeared into the office with an armful of clothes.

“Emily’s lovely, Douglas,” Martin offered. “I’m sorry Laura’s so terrible.”

“Martin, Laura is my former wife and the mother of my child. I’ll thank you not to call her ‘terrible.’”

“Oh, God, um, I just meant—” Even Arthur was staring at him, his mouth open.

“Martin, I know exactly what you meant. After years of dealing with you, I always know exactly what you mean.” Douglas’ eyes were shut and he was pinching the bridge of his nose. “I just wish you wouldn’t let your mouth get ahead of your brain _all_ the time. Just once in a while, can you think before you speak? What if you’d said that in front of Emily?”

Martin’s stammered apology was lost as Emily burst back into the room, dressed in jeans, a tee shirt, sneakers, and three different necklaces, her hair loose and wild. “Can I have the chocolate now, Daddy? And can we go see the aeroplane now?”

“Yes, now that you’re changed.” Emily was shoving her dress and shoes and purse back into the luggage. “We’ll put your case back together when we’re ready to go home. Just put your slicker back on and we’ll go see Gerti. You can sit in the captain’s seat and I’ll show you what all the controls do. Then we’ll go visit air traffic control. Do you remember Carl?” Emily nodded, looking a little uncertain. “Let’s bring along a Toblerone to give him.”

Emily jumped up to get her slicker off the hook and tried to put it on with her Toblerone in one hand. Douglas put his raincoat on and bent down to help her while she tore the wrapping off the chocolate and took a huge bite. He picked up another Toberlone and they scampered out the door together, holding hands.

Martin’s face was still hot with embarrassment. God, how could he be so endlessly stupid?

“Skip, would you like a Toblerone?” Arthur asked, pushing one toward him.

“No, thank you, Arthur.” Even Arthur could tell how awful he was and was being kind to him. God.

“It’s just about five, so think I’ll be going home. You have a good weekend.”

“You too, Skip.”

 


	5. Douglas Considers His Performance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas thinks back on the day.

Sleep was not Douglas’ friend that night. He couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said to Martin. After all, Martin was right. The bitterness that always tinged his and Laura’s conversations was, in fact, terrible. Both Laura and he knew it. And they both hated it when Emily heard them. But neither of them could stop sniping at the other any more than they could stop breathing.

And he shouldn’t have let his anger bubble over into his conversation with Martin. Martin would certainly never have said such a thing if Emily could have heard. He knew that perfectly well. But he’d berated him just the same. And he’d kept at it, digging into the boy’s psyche with as much vitriol as if Martin were Laura and he was trying to score a point against her. Martin didn’t deserve that. He didn’t have the defenses to manage the abuse, the way Laura did.

He’d have to do find a way to make it up to Martin. He didn't know how, but something would come to him. It always did.


	6. Plan B in Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin starts moving forward.

By the time he’d gotten home, Martin had decided to ask Michael if he could borrow his laptop. That was depressing, too. He was a grown man who had to borrow his housemate’s laptop because he couldn’t afford his own. But Michael always went out on Fridays, and he reminded Martin that it was always okay if he borrowed his laptop whenever he was out. He’d even made Martin a guest account. Though Martin wasn’t sure whether that was so he couldn’t accidentally see Michael’s web habits, or whether Michael didn’t want to see Martin’s. But that was good, especially tonight. Because Douglas’ tongue-lashing had tipped him over the edge, made him decide that it was time to start working on Plan B. Right now.

He searched “men seeking men” in Craigslist. Lots of entries, all of them things like “slutty bottom seeking dom,” “hold my head and fuck my mouth,” and “let’s have sex 2nite.” He read back a week, but it was all the same. He checked “Miscellaneous Romance” for m4m in Craigslist, too, but it was just like the other list. “Pizza delivery blow job,” “fuck me tonight,” “looking to meet hung guy w no drama.” There were a few “looking for friendship,” but the men who’d posted those were just like him. Their jobs didn’t pay, their cars didn’t work, they needed to visit _your_ flat because theirs was terrible. He definitely didn’t want to post anything there, even though he was mostly “looking for friendship.” He didn’t want to add himself to the public roster of men who couldn’t manage their lives properly.

He decided to search “local gay bars.” There were six within a reasonable drive. More than he’d thought. At least in a bar you could see what people were like, see if you wanted to talk to them, so that was better than Craigslist. Not that anyone would be falling all over themselves to talk to him. Or that he’d have the nerve to talk to anyone. But it would be nice to spend some time away from his attic room. And to dream a little.

_Stop it. It’s Plan B. It’s a plan. Focus. You can make it work._

The first was a sport bar. He didn’t know anything about sport. One was a “bear” bar. Martin clicked on that one to find out what it was, then hit the back button. Extremely hairy, extremely fat, mostly-naked, sweaty men weren’t a turn-on. One was a cabaret with men in drag. He could sing a little, but he certainly didn’t have enough going on to interest a drag queen. Each bar catered to such specific tastes. Nothing for someone looking for an ordinary night out. One was called “Stick” and had pictures of handsome, muscular young men dancing bare-chested. They were nice to look at, but he’d never want to dance without his shirt on. And nobody would spare a look at him if he did. The next one was for men from southeast Asia.

But the last one looked, well, ordinary. The pictures showed a nice restaurant and bar. Sort of a wine bar, with brick walls and wide-plank floors. It looked nice but not too upscale, like any other restaurant where people might go for dinner and young professionals might go to meet someone. Not that he was young any more. But it was for regular people, who weren’t hairy, or sporty, or fond of floor shows, or really handsome, or from southeast Asia.

He jotted down the address and left a quick thank-you note for Michael. He went upstairs to change, putting on his best jeans and a fresh button-down shirt, his uniform shoes, and his blazer. _Just one wine,_ he thought, _and I won’t drink it fast. Just see what the place is like. At least I won’t be hanging around by myself all night. Again._ He tried to comb his hair, but that never went well, either. He sighed at himself and hoped the van would start up.


	7. Martin’s Night Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin’s night out.

It was only half-six when he got there. The place was nearly empty, except for some older couples—most of them same-sex couples—having dinner. He was relieved that it was just like he’d hoped, just like any other restaurant, complete with early birds having their night out. No stress of fitting in with a specific crowd. But the bar was absolutely empty, which seemed odd for a Friday night. He took the stool at the far end of the bar and ordered a house white. Those were always cheapest. “When do people start showing up?” he asked the bartender.

“Dinner crowd really starts coming in around seven, and we’re usually full by eight” the man said, sliding a dish of peanuts toward him. “Then we get the drinks crowd when the band comes in at ten. It’s jazz tonight.” The bartender was much better-looking than Martin, handsome with wavy brown hair. It looked like he whitened his teeth. “So it’s still early. You meeting someone?”

“No,” Martin laughed and took a sip of his wine. The bartender went back to the front of the bar and started cutting up lemons and limes.

* * *

Martin was on his third wine. It was almost eleven. As people started coming in, he’d decided to stay longer, see if the crowd changed over time. The bartender had been low-key about it, had let him sit all night without pestering him to order more. He’d hoped that someone would talk to him. Of course, nobody had.

He’d tried talking with a man—John, if that was his real name—who’d sat down beside him. Around his age, just come from a late night at work, judging by the suit. They’d made small talk and Martin had started feeling like he could _do_ this, he could go out and talk to strangers and be a person someone would like to talk to. But John had just been killing time waiting for his date, who was tall, handsome, young, and well-dressed. John took his date’s arm and walked off, not even bothering to wish him a good night.

But he’d been brave, Martin told himself. He’d actually talked to someone. He should be proud of that. And he was. Until he realized it was thanks to the wine on his empty stomach. Now he knew why people drank. So they could feel good about themselves. There wasn’t enough liquor in the world to help him do that. Though he wondered what it said about Douglas. No, nothing to do with Douglas was any of his business.

He eventually decided that he’d failed enough for one night. Time to go home. He swallowed the last of his wine and started threading through the crowd. Someone squeezed his arse and he jumped, turning to see who it was. But nobody was looking at him. Just some drunk having a grope. At least his arse interested someone. Maybe he should scroll through Craigslist again.

His van wouldn’t start. Of course. The battery was down, and he needed a jump. Christ. He’d gotten there early enough that he was parked right near the front of the restaurant, but the rest of the spots were filled with people who were there for the jazz band, there for the night, and nobody was coming or going. He’d just have to wait until someone nearby decided to leave, then hope they wouldn’t mind giving him a jump. If not, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d slept in his van. The police always gave him a jump when they rousted him in the morning.

It took just less than an hour before a man came out of the bar and started heading for a Mercedes across the street. He was in his forties and good looking. Martin jogged over before the man could get to his car door.

“Excuse me, my van’s battery’s dead. Would you mind giving me a jump? I have the cables and know how to do it. I’m just parked right there.” After about a million jumps, he’d learned it was best to stand about ten feet away and get all the details out in a rush. Then there was no awkward conversation about “no, I’m not a mugger or a rapist, ha, ha.”

The man looked at him, then in the direction Martin was pointing, at his van. His mouth scrunched up in distaste. “Does that thing really run?” he asked. “It doesn’t look like it runs.”

“I know it’s old, but it only needs a jump,” Martin repeated. He shivered suddenly. It still wasn’t really warm, even though it was early summer. He’d gotten cold while he was waiting. He couldn’t sit in his van, of course, because then he wouldn’t be able to see where people were going or get out quickly enough to ask for help.

“Show me,” the man said, and he started walking over. Martin blew out a breath, relieved. He could get out of the cold and back to his flat. He unlocked the driver’s door and reached in to pull the bonnet release, then grabbed the cables from under the driver’s seat.

“Here, it’s really simple,” he said, propping the bonnet up with its support rod. “I only need to attach these ends to my battery terminals, like this, then I attach the other end to your battery terminals and you start your car. It’ll start right up. Won’t take more than a tick.”

He’d attached the clamps to the battery terminals, then unwound the cable and was holding up the other clamps for the man to see by the time he’d finished talking.

The man’s slight frown had become a grin. God, he was handsome. “You have this timed well, don’t you?” he asked. “Is this how you pick up all your boyfriends? Really original, I’ll give you that.”

Martin didn’t know what to say. He kept opening his mouth, hoping something would come out, but nothing was happening.

“My name’s Peter Quince. Now, is this really about a jump for your battery, or would you like to have a coffee?”


	8. Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is happy.

Martin woke up feeling happy the next morning. Really, actually happy. He hadn’t felt this good since he’d got his CPL. He almost thought that if he opened his attic window, a bluebird would fly in and land on his finger, like in Snow White.

It had been so nice being with Pete. Relaxing. Comfortable. Like they were old friends who’d known each other for years and were only just meeting again after a long time. Pete had bundled him into his Mercedes and taken him to a late-night coffee bar near the university to warm up. They’d managed to get the armchairs next to the fire, and they’d talked over cappuccinos until the place closed. Martin told him about flying with MJN, how tiny it was and how ridiculous some of the clients were. Pete was an architect who’d just moved here and started his own practice after spending years in a London firm. He told Martin about the projects he’d worked on—some very important buildings around the world. He was telling a long story involving a problem with the cladding—he thought that was the word—on a building in Gugarat in India and the really inventive solution the workers came up with when he said, “good Lord, your eyes are glazing over. That always happens unless I’m talking to another architect. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Martin laughed. “That happens when I talk about flying. Even when I’m talking to another pilot.”

Then Pete had driven him back to his van, helped him jump it, and followed him back home to be sure he made it. He’d come up to the front door to wish Martin good night. Martin had wanted to invite him in. Just to thank him—he knew he couldn’t really interest someone like Pete. But having him in was out of the question.

“It’s a shared house, you see, five university students plus me. It’s always a bit awkward having people over.”

“Are you the house mother, then?”

“No!” Martin had felt himself blush. He’d been embarrassed enough about saying he worked for a tiny charter flight company. (He hadn’t bothered to point out that he was the captain. It inevitably led to salary and suavity expectations that he didn’t meet.) It’d be truly humiliating if Pete thought he was paid to keep an eye on the students.

“I was just thinking you’d be a good role model for them. You’re really smart, easy to talk to,” Pete said, touching Martin’s elbow.

“Oh. But they don’t need much looking after. They’re all at the agriculture college. They’re very focused.”

“Can I see you again, Martin?”

God, somebody had spent time with him _and_ wanted to see him again. “Um, I’d really like that.”

“Why don’t I give you my number,” he said, pulling a business card out of his wallet. “I’ll write my personal mobile on the back. Let’s get together again soon, okay?”

“Yes. Yes, that would be good. Really good. Really, really good. I’d like that.” _Stop talking!_ He was sounding like Arthur. Then Pete had him backed up against the front door and was kissing him. Pete’s hands were on his hips and his mouth was pressed to Martin’s. It felt so good. It was first-kiss polite, but with a little heat under it, and Pete’s hands felt strong and reassuring. Martin realized that he should start kissing back. He leaned in clumsily, knocking their teeth together, but Pete laughed and didn’t seem to mind. His hands found Pete’s waist and slipped around his back. An embarrassingly needy noise escaped him as Pete pulled away, flicking his tongue against Martin’s lips.

“Call me soon, Martin, all right?” he said.

Then he turned and was in his car and away down the street before Martin’s brain got back in gear. His hands were shaking and his breath was coming short and he was feeling light and floaty as he let himself into the house and went up to his room.

* * *

Martin snuggled deeper into his bed and sighed happily at last night’s memory, wondering how long you should wait before calling someone you’d just met. He wished he knew someone to ask. It would be too embarrassing to ask the students, even though they’d know. Douglas would certainly know. But even if Douglas had _any_ interest in answering Martin’s dating questions, he was busy with his daughter. They were probably doing something exciting and a little bit dangerous right now.

Maybe tomorrow night would be good. That wouldn’t be too desperately soon, or so far off that Pete would think he wasn’t interested. He’d call tomorrow night.

* * *

He texted Pete from Manila. It was mid-afternoon back in the U.K. They made a date for Saturday night. Pete would make dinner and they’d watch a movie on TV. Pete said it would be a low-key, relaxing evening if they went to his house, instead of shouting at each other in a crowded, noisy restaurant. Martin agreed, relieved that he wouldn’t have to spend money on a night out. He hoped Pete wouldn’t notice that he’d be wearing the exact same clothes.


	9. Rehearsals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rehearsals for the summer production.

Rehearsals for MJN’s musical production for the summer began Thursday, as soon as they were back from Manila. It was _The Pirates of Penzance._ Douglas had sent away for the scores and he and Emily practiced most of the time they were on standby. And they were on standbys a lot this month. Emily was really good at singing and acting. No surprise there, with Douglas’ genes. She commandeered all the choice roles, allowing Douglas to have the ones she didn’t like, and to sing opposite her in the duets. Although Douglas insisted on taking the “Major-General’s Song.” It didn’t take much for Emily to convince Arthur to make some scenery, or to take the part of the chorus. She didn’t seem to mind that he couldn’t carry a tune. Carolyn occasionally came out of her office and shouted at them. Usually when Arthur was chorusing. They kept things reasonably quiet for a while afterwards, though they always slowly built in volume again, as you do when mounting a musical.

Martin tried to keep out of the way. Douglas hadn’t asked him to join them. And Douglas was right, he thought, watching them over the top of his book from the far corner of the portacabin. He’d only put his foot in it again. At least he had spending time with Pete to look forward to. He hadn't make a hash of things with Pete. Yet.

* * *

Douglas kept telling himself not to look over at Martin. Though his gaze always wandered over, far more often than it should. The boy looked miserable hiding behind his book, like he felt had no place being there and was trying to keep anyone from seeing him. And Douglas had done that to him. He felt he lost a year of his life every time he saw the blank look on Martin’s face, the way his eyes darted away whenever Douglas looked over at him.

But he daren’t ask him to join in. It would be too tempting. He knew full well that he would only use the opportunity to put his hands on Martin whenever possible, under the pretense of shifting his position, adjusting his pose, taking his jaw in his hand to make sure he presented his profile just so. And he could not afford to indulge himself with Martin right now.

His time with Emily was too little and too precious. He did not want to be distracted during their time together, and she certainly deserved all his attention. This time needed to be about having fun, making memories that Emily would look back on with pleasure throughout her life. Despite whatever Laura told her about him. Even though all of it was true.

When Emily went to stay with her aunt in Nottingham next month, he’d be able to explain, tell Martin how he’d wanted to be with him but couldn’t have taken the risk, either in advance of the summer or during Emily's visit. After all, it had been three years since he and Emily had spent any significant amount of time together. Laura had been furious that she’d broken her arm, and the judge had taken her side. He couldn’t possibly risk interfering with their time together this summer. He couldn’t. Surely Martin would understand that.

He’d just have to count on Martin’s self-confidence to see him through the month. What little he had of it.


	10. Martin's Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin's date with Pete.

Martin felt a little nervous about visiting Pete at his flat on their second date—which was really their first date, because they’d only talked for about an hour over coffee. He picked some of the flowers and ferns in the front garden and arranged them in wet paper towels and tinfoil before he went over. He had no idea why the landlord had flower beds when he didn’t live there. The house looked miserable and the beds did nothing to mask it. But it was useful tonight. And, miraculously, his van started right up. That had to be a good omen. He was grinning like a fool on the way over.

Pete’s flat looked like he’d imagined it. A huge, open-space loft, with important-looking modern furniture. Almost like a stage set for a movie about an up-and-coming-professional. Pete said the furniture was Barcelona style. He had to remember that, since it was important enough for Pete to mention. And it turned out Pete made a really good spaghetti carbonara. Though, God knows, he’d been hoping for something besides pasta for a change. It wasn’t as good as the carbonara that Douglas had made that time he’d had everybody over. Nor was the chianti as good as the one Douglas had picked out for them. _Stop it, just stop it. Stop thinking about Douglas. He doesn’t want you._

* * *

They watched a French film after dinner. Martin couldn’t quite follow it. Pete had told him during dinner that they had to finish the bottle of chianti or it would be bad luck. Martin felt he’d drunk more than his share, but Pete had just smiled at him and refilled his glass.

About halfway through the film, Pete slid close to him and put a hand on his thigh, started to nuzzle at his ear. He turned to Pete and smiled. He felt so lucky. He couldn’t imagine why Pete was interested in him. Pete was handsome and intelligent and he had a great career and was obviously well off. He could have anyone he wanted. What on earth did he see in him? Well, Pete wouldn’t see much in him once he got to know him, so he should enjoy this while it lasted.

Pete leaned closer and slipped his hand behind Martin’s neck and pressed his lips against Martin’s. It was even better than their kiss at his front door. Pete was a great kisser—at least the best that Martin had been with. He was gentle but insistent, teasing Martin’s lips apart with his tongue, then touching the tip of Martin’s tongue with his own before retreating, making Martin want to reciprocate. And he finally got the hang of reciprocating after a couple of tries. He was only a little embarrassed this time at the noises he was making. Pete even asked if Martin liked kissing him, was okay with it.

“God, yes,” he said. He felt light-headed and breathless.

“That throat,” Pete said—he sounded desperate, and he kissed the flesh beneath Martin’s jaw, rushing back up to capture his lips, running his hands through Martin’s curls then grabbing fistfuls of his hair, kissing him like he couldn’t get enough, like Martin was air and Pete was drowning. Martin wrapped his arms around Pete and kissed him back, desperate for more. He had a sudden vision of himself as an oriental prince from his mum’s favorite childhood storybook, sprawled luxuriously on a bed of silk pillows in a rich tent, a handsome warrior at his debauched beck and call.

“Christ, Martin, you taste good,” Pete said, and Martin laughed at him.  

“You just like the taste of your own cooking and the wine you picked out. That’s what I taste of.” He tightened his grip on Pete and kissed him, tracing his tongue along Pete’s teeth and darting into Pete’s mouth before he felt self-conscious and pulled back to catch his breath.

“You can’t get away that easy,” and Pete was kissing him again, half on top of him now, pressing against him, and Pete’s cock was hard and hot against his thigh. Martin groaned and slid his hands down to grab Pete’s arse and he pulled Pete tight against him and he was arching up, pushing his thigh into Pete’s cock to let him know he felt it and he liked it and, God, he wanted this so much, wanted someone to kiss him and touch him and want him.

“Martin,” Pete’s voice broke, but then he was pushing himself away. Martin was afraid he’d done something wrong and his eyes snapped open. Pete was straddling him now, pulling off his jumper and flinging it away, unbuttoning his shirt. He tossed his shirt too, and started tugging at Martin’s shirt buttons, his hands shaking. “God, Martin, I can’t believe how beautiful you are. Take these off. Take them off. I want to see you,” he demanded, yanking at Martin’s shirt.

The praise made him dizzy: it was almost more than he could bear. His brain was moving slowly, thick with honey. He pushed himself upright and, eyes locked with Pete’s, pulled off his jacket one slow arm at a time and dropped it to the floor. He pulled his shirt—the little bit that was still tucked in—out of his trousers and undid the last buttons. Pete was staring at him, his chest and face flushed and his breath fast, blinking like he was dreaming. There was sweat on Pete’s forehead, darkening the hair at his temples, and on his upper lip. Sweat on his shoulders and chest. As Martin undid one cuff, then the other, a single drop slid from Pete’s temple down his face and beaded on his chin. Martin dropped his shirt and leaned up to lick Pete’s chin and upper lip, tasting the salt, his tongue rasping against Pete’s end-of-day stubble, then pressed his lips to Pete’s mouth and wrapped his arms around his neck. He groaned as Pete pulled him close and wrapped his arms around his waist, holding him tight to himself, all but squeezingthe air out of him. Pete lapped at his mouth, then crushed his lips, pushing his tongue in again, shoving past his teeth and licking under his tongue, then sucking his tongue so forcefully that Martin could feel the pull all the way down to his groin.

He groaned, a loud, needy sound, as Pete released his tongue, then bent to bite his neck and shoulder. He pushed his hips up as best he could, pressing his cock against Pete. God, this was silly, wasn’t it, two half-clothed men snogging on a sofa. He felt like a teenager again, dry-humping a date, but he felt Pete’s cock jump against his stomach and then Pete was pulling away again, and tugging at his own belt.

“Martin,” he was breathless now. “God, you have to blow me. I have to see those gorgeous lips wrapped around my cock, watch you work me.” He’d scrambled off Martin and was tugging his trousers down and kicking them off (when had he taken off his shoes?) and struggling to get out of his pants as fast as he could. His pants were sopping wet with pre-come; the smell of it was strong and sharp, and Martin’s stomach turned suddenly.

Pete sat back on the sofa, his legs spread wide. Pete’s cock was long and thick and bobbed obscenely, slick and glistening, from his nest of dark pubic hair. Martin’s stomach twisted again, and he was afraid he might be sick. He was trying to process this. How had they gone from snogging on a first date to Pete expecting him to suck him? Was this what people really did? Was he just being inept again, not having had enough relationships to really know how they went? Or maybe he just gave off a permanent “use me” signal, like a lone, weak gazelle at a watering hole with a lion prowling at his back. That last seemed the likeliest. It was always the likeliest. The sweat was drying on him and he shivered.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Pete said. He leaned over and ran his hands through Martin’s hair, drew him close, kissed him gently. Then he clasped his hands behind Martin’s neck and started pulling Martin’s head down. _It’s plan B,_  Martin told himself. _You have to compromise. You have to settle._

“Condom?” Martin squeaked out, his lips an inch away from Pete’s mushroom-shaped head. Pete’s cock was the biggest he’d ever seen. He didn’t know how he’d be able to get even the head into his mouth. Pete released him and he sat up. “D-do you have a condom?” Martin repeated.

“Really?” Pete was staring at him like he couldn’t believe it. “You really want me to wear a condom? I want those lips on _me,_  not on some latex sock.”

“Erm, I, uh, I just want to know it’s safe. That’s all.” Pete’s face was closing down. _Opened your mouth, didn’t you, you just had to open your mouth. Jesus._  He shivered again.

“Do you think I’d ask you to suck me off if I didn’t know I was clean?” His voice was cold. “Christ. What kind of person do you think I am? Christ.” Pete pushed him away and was stomping into the kitchen area. Martin scrambled after him, nearly taking a header after stumbling over his own shirt and jacket.

“I’m sorry, it’s—I didn’t mean anything. It’s just we hadn’t talked about it.” Pete was facing away from him, his hands on the counter, so angry he was shaking. _Turn back around,_  Martin thought desperately at his back. _You’ve got to turn back around. Please._  His stomach was a painful knot.

“I want to be with you. I do. I just haven’t been with anyone in a long time.” He knew he should go over, stand next to Pete, touch his shoulder, lean into him. But he couldn’t get himself to move. He knew that if he moved he’d do something else wrong. Whatever he did, it would be wrong. It always was. “I’m sorry. Pete.” _Stupid. That’s why no one wants to be with you. Stupid._

“I can’t believe you, Martin. What the bloody hell do you think I am? Do you think I’d endanger you—anyone—for my own pleasure?”

“I’m sorry. Sorry.” Martin’s voice had gone. He could barely hear himself. _I just wanted us both to talk about it, to be sure. Once you know the answer, you can relax. Like doing a flight checklist._ “I’ll. I’ll just go, then.” He finally managed to get himself moving, managed to turn around and get himself back to the sofa and his clothes. He felt heavy and nerveless. _Just go home and forget it. Would never have worked. What would he see in you once he knew you?_

He was buttoning his shirt when Pete came over to him. “Martin.” Pete’s erection had wilted. _No, you wilted it._ “You were right to ask. We should have talked about it. I shouldn’t have gotten angry.”

Martin shook his head, kept buttoning. “No. I should have trusted you.”

Pete put his hands on Martin’s, stilled them. Martin raised his eyes to Pete’s. He felt exhausted. He fucked everything up. All the time. Pete clasped Martin’s hands in his and leaned forward to kiss him on the forehead. So softly. _That’s kind,_  he thought. _So kind. He won’t be screaming down the hall at me when he puts me out._  Pete bent to kiss Martin’s lips. So gently. Martin couldn’t have kept his helpless groan in his throat if his life depended on it. Pete pressed Martin’s hands to his chest—Pete’s nipples were still hard—and wrapped his arms around Martin’s shoulders, drawing him close. He pulled Martin’s head down onto his shoulder, kissing his temple and ear.

“It’s okay,” Pete whispered into his ear, “it’s okay.” Martin realized how tense he was and took a deep, sobbing gulp of air, sighed it out. His stomach was unknotting a little. Pete was stroking his hair, massaging his shoulders, reaching under his shirt to stroke his back. He whispered “it’s okay” again and again, just holding him. He pulled Martin down until they were both sitting on the sofa, Martin still enfolded in his arms. Pete found his lips again and they kissed. Martin was starting to get aroused again, the adrenaline of his fear fueling him. God, he just wanted to be okay at being with someone for once. He was always off kilter when he was with someone, couldn’t cope with the closeness, with knowing he’d fuck it up soon, with waiting for it to end. He was sick of it, sick of himself.

Pete lay back on the sofa, pulling Martin on top of him. Pete kept kissing him, his forehead, his eyes, his cheeks, his lips. “That’s it, just relax,” Pete whispered, stroking Martin’s hair again. “Relax. That’s it. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Pete touched Martin’s lips tentatively with his tongue, as if seeking permission. Martin opened his mouth, suddenly desperate for more contact. Pete gripped him and he tangled his hands in Pete’s hair, kissing him, trying to press himself into Pete’s skin. “Martin, I was afraid you’d go. I don’t want you to go.” Pete was hard against him again and he hooked his legs behind Martin’s legs to keep him there.

Martin groaned. If he hadn’t been lying down, his knees might have gone out from under him. “I thought you wanted me to leave. I don’t want to leave.” Pete kissed him again.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Pete was thrusting up against him again. “Martin, I can’t wait anymore.” He sounded breathless. “You going to suck me?”

Martin tried to breathe, couldn’t. _Oh. Yes. Of course._  Pete had seen through him. It wasn’t hard to add him up, was it? Terrible van that wouldn’t start, attic room in a student house, one set of good clothes, flowers from the yard. _Just feed me and I’ll owe you. I’m good for a night, then you can look for a real boyfriend._  Hell, he knew he wasn’t worth bothering with. He just kept pointlessly hoping that he could improve his life.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on pulling in a lungful of air. “I can’t wait, either. I need to feel you inside me.” That’s what people said, he was sure of it. He’d managed to say what he should for once. He didn’t think he’d sounded properly enthusiastic, but he’d said the right words. It wouldn’t make Pete want to keep him, but he could be proud that he’d said the right thing.

Pete was pushing him away, sitting up again. Martin slid off the sofa and knelt at Pete’s feet. He was glad he still had his trousers on. He’d feel so much more exposed if he were naked. Pete’s cock was weeping. He didn’t like the smell of it. It smelled off, somehow, and it made him feel a little sick. _Tough shit. Act like an adult. The man’s fed you and let you drink his wine. Give him what he wants so you can leave with a little dignity._

He licked the slit and Pete groaned as his back arched. Maybe Pete would get off quickly. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could go home and forget about it. He licked up the underside of the shaft and over the glans, then hummed against the tip. Pete grunted and shivered. His hands were tight on the back of the sofa, his head lolled back. Martin pulled him forward so he could reach him better.

“Tastes so good,” he said, running his tongue up Pete’s perineum and along the underside again. Pete’s cock was thick and veiny. “Mm, can’t wait to take you in my mouth.” That sounded right, too. So far, he hadn’t said anything to reproach himself with later. He managed to get the head into his mouth and sucked gently. Pete grunted again and his cock twitched against Martin’s lips. Martin worked up and down the shaft, licking up the pre-cum. The smell had him on the verge of gagging and he wanted to get rid of it. He hummed softly as he worked, buzzing his lips against the taut flesh. Pete was definitely going to be quick. He was thrusting erratically already, like he couldn’t control himself, and making choked noises.

“God, Martin, God,” he said, grabbing Martin’s hair. “That’s so good, you’re so good.” Pete’s grip tightened, bringing tears to Martin’s eyes. He wanted to ask Pete to let go, but they’d had enough drama for the night. The moment Martin managed to get Pete completely in his mouth, Pete started pistoning Martin’s head back and forth, fucking his mouth. He wanted to cry. This was what he was good for. Even when someone seemed to like him, they didn’t really. What was there to like?

Pete was long and kept ramming the back of his throat. Martin closed his eyes and concentrated on swallowing so he didn’t gag, on breathing through his nose. It was all he could do to keep his gag reflex down. Pete’s sweat smelled rank.

But Pete wasn’t done quickly. His cock kept twitching and he gasped and groaned and fucked Martin’s mouth, but he didn’t come. It felt like he’d been sucking Pete for hours, and Pete’s hips were jerking so chaotically that it was hard just to keep up with him. He kept gagging and he could feel the back of his throat bruising. But as long as he didn’t vomit, they’d be fine. He finally thought about working his finger into Pete and reached around—Pete was so all over the place that it was hard just to just keep his hand on him, but he finally managed it.

And that did it. “God, Martin, I’m coming, God!” Pete pulled Martin’s head down until his lips were crushed against Pete’s pubic bone, then came down his throat. Martin tried to keep swallowing, tried not to choke. As soon as Pete let go of his head, he fell backward, gasping. He’d thought he was going to pass out from lack of air just before Pete came. His scalp and thighs burned. His jaw was sore and his throat felt like hell. It was hard to swallow, hard to get the taste out of his mouth. He rubbed the sweat off his face and Pete’s come off his lips. Then Pete slid off the couch to kneel with him, face to face, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, holding his hair and kissing him.

Pete pulled back to breathe, then palmed him through his trousers and started laughing. “You liked that. You came in your pants.” Pete was right: He could feel his pants under Pete’s hand, cold and wet against his flaccid cock. He hadn’t noticed he’d come. How was it possible to come without realizing it? What was wrong with him?

Pete was kissing him again, plunging his tongue into his mouth. He hadn’t expected Pete to start kissing him after. Why would he? “You taste like my come,” Pete said, pressing his hips into Martin’s. Pete was getting hard again. Panic shot up his spine. _I want to leave. I want to go home._  He ran his hands up Pete’s back, then pulled away a little.

“Are you shy, Martin? Are you playing shy, you slut?” Pete held him tighter and ran his tongue up his cheek.

“I have to fly tomorrow.” That was a lie. It had just blurted out.

Pete was biting his shoulder and running a thumb over his nipple. “Pete, I have to tell you. I have to fly in the morning, I need to go home.”

Pete drew back and looked him in the eye. “You didn’t mention that earlier. Where are you going?”

“Namibia. In southern Africa. It needs two pilots. And I have to have a certain amount of rest. It’s regulation. I didn’t know we’d be… intimate tonight”— _Intimate? What are you, a Victorian? Christ._ —“or I would have told you. So you’d know. About my time restriction.” He was babbling. He could feel himself getting hot and knew he was bright red.

Pete’s hands dropped to his sides. “Okay. I see. Fuck me and leave. That’s great.”

Did Pete want him to stay? It seemed impossible, but He might have a chance. He didn’t want Pete to dump him. He couldn’t fuck this up. He was sick to death of fucking up his relationships. The few he had. He touched Pete’s face, ran his hands down Pete’s chest, down his abs to his groin, and cupped his sticky cock. “I want to stay. How can I not want to? I look at you and I just want to be with you. But we wouldn’t sleep if I stayed, would we? We’d be staying awake. For a long time.” He kissed Pete, focusing on pressing hungrily into his mouth. Pete didn’t kiss back for a moment and Martin almost begged him not to be angry.

Pete pulled back a fraction. “Just another couple of kisses, then, okay?” he said, and he held Martin again and kissed him, soft and deep, like their kiss on his doorstep. That first kiss seemed a year ago, but it was only a few days. _Stop thinking. That’s your problem._  Martin let himself melt into Pete’s arms, into his lips. It felt so good. He’d stay the night if Pete asked, let him have whatever he wanted.

“You’d better get going, then,” Pete said. He released Martin so quickly that he almost lost his balance.

“Oh. Yes.” He steadied himself and reached for his shirt. He pulled it on and started buttoning it. He was a mess. His shirt was a mess. His trousers were filthy. He was sweaty and sticky. He hoped nobody in Pete’s posh building would come along while he was leaving, see him doing the walk of shame. Pete shuffled closer on his knees and put his hands on Martin’s chest and started nuzzling at his neck.

“I can’t button my shirt with yours hand there,” Martin said, ducking his chin away from Pete. “And that tickles.” It was like their time at the coffee shop again, easy and relaxing.

“Tickles, huh?” Pete shuffled closer and started kissing him again. “When can I see you again?”

“I’m, um, I’m not sure how long we’ll be in Namibia. We’re taking a client to do some business and he doesn’t know how long it will take. But they usually don’t last more than a few days.” More lies. “How about this weekend?”

“I’d like that. Will you phone me when you land? I want to know you landed safely.”

“I _really_  can’t button my shirt with your hand there.”

“Really? Huh.” Pete smiled against his lips, then licked them.

“I have to go home so I’m in hours.”

“Okay,” Pete shuffled away again. Martin finished his buttons as quickly as he could and reached for his jacket. “You’ll phone me, right?”

“I’ll phone. No, I’ll have to text. I don’t have roaming.”

Pete walked him to the door and kissed him again. “Really?” He made an I-don’t-believe-it face. “You’re an airline pilot and you don’t have roaming?”

“No one to phone.” Martin tried for a rueful smile. “But I’ll text you when we land.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Your van going to start?”

“I hope so.”

“I’ll watch and make sure it gets going for you.”

Pete walked him down to his van. It started right away. Martin smiled and waved at Pete as he pulled away, and Pete smiled and waved back.

The night had ended well, at least. After a miserable patch. Why did he always do everything wrong? Why couldn’t he just be a normal person? Have a normal relationship? Though he didn’t think it was so wrong to ask whether they needed to use a condom. Not with someone he’d just met. But thanks to him, they’d had a row on their first proper date. And it _was_  a proper date, it _was._  Pete wanted him to text when they landed, wanted to see him again. He thought about sucking Pete, about Pete fucking his mouth, pounding into his throat. Using him. _Stop it. You’re too sensitive. That’s what people do. Think about Craigslist. Those gay-bar websites. People meet up and fuck each other in the men’s room and then leave._ _Don’t whinge because someone likes you and wants to have sex with you and wants to see you again._ _That’s exactly what you hoped for._

Pete’s taste, his smell had been powerful, nearly overwhelming. Martin’s stomach twisted at the memory of it and he started to sweat. Pete’s smell rose along with his sweat and his stomach knifed again. He suddenly felt light-headed. He pulled over to the roadside in the middle of nowhere and threw the van into park. He jerked the door open and stumbled out. The temperature had dropped and the sweat started chilling on him, making him shiver.

 _What is the_ matter _with you?_  He couldn’t get away from Pete’s smell rising from his flesh. It made him feel sick. His stomach turned over. His knees went out from under him and he dropped into the weeds and started retching. His dinner lurched back up and finally spilled into the roadside weeds. It was bitter and somehow smelled of Pete. He was sick again and again, crawling like a dog from each pile of sick to a fresh spot, until he was spitting bile and saliva. Finally his stomach was done. He sat back on his heels, cold and shaking and gasping, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. At least he’d stopped at a field, thank God, not at someone’s lawn. He finally felt like he’d recovered enough to get back behind the wheel.

His legs were wobbly, but he didn’t feel like he was going to be sick again. And he wasn’t light-headed. He was safe to drive. He was freezing cold, though. He got into the van and pulled out. He focused on the road. Kept his mind away from anything besides the road. He shivered and turned the heater on as high as it would go. He just wanted to get home. He’d take a long shower, hot as he could stand. It would get Pete’s smell and the smell of sick off him, warm him up.

 

* * *

He spent the better part of an hour scalding himself in the shower, until the hot water ran out. He felt cleaner. He’d brushed his teeth at least five times under the spray, then gulped mouthfuls of shower water to try to soothe his throat. It was raw from the stomach acid he’d vomited up, on top of the bruising. At least he’d thought to bring his Thermos downstairs for tea. He pulled on his old flannel dressing gown but felt cold again as soon as he stepped out of the bathroom. He shivered his way to the kitchen and filled the kettle. He put two teabags into the Thermos and waited for the kettle to click over.

His mobile trilled in his bathrobe pocket. Text. His stomach flipped again. He didn’t want to look at it. It had to be Pete. Who else would text him at midnight? Saying he was looking forward to seeing him again. Or saying he’d decided he didn’t want to see him again. He’d managed to stop thinking about it a little in the shower, hadn’t thought about anything except the hot water and getting clean and making tea and going to bed, and he didn’t want to think about it any more right now.

His mobile rang—Carolyn’s ringtone. He grabbed it and flipped it open.

“It’s about time. I’ve been trying to get you all night. Where have you been?”

“I’m on my own time, so I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

Carolyn was silent for long moments. “We’ve got a last-minute job and we’re flying to Ghana tomorrow. I need you at the airfield at six-thirty in the morning.”

Martin checked the time. “I won’t have enough sleep to be in hours.”

“Then it’s a good thing that Douglas will be. I got in touch with him five hours ago because he’s an adult who knows how to answer his phone.”

“I’ll be there at six-thirty, no worries,” he said, and cut the connection.

Good Lord, _that_  was unprofessional. Snapping at Carolyn and hanging up on her. He’d have to apologize in the morning. He filled his Thermos and went upstairs, still shivering. He hoped the tea would soothe his throat, help him get warm and fall sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Furniture references:  
> • http://iconicinteriors.com/designer_furniture/category/designer-sofas/3_seater_barcelona_sofa/  
> • http://iconicinteriors.com/designer_furniture/category/chairs/bamberg_barcelona_chair/  
> • http://www.knoll.com/product/barcelona-table


	11. Accra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit self-indulgent, but I hope you enjoy!

They had thunderstorms all the way to Accra, the tail end of an early hurricane. It made for a long, difficult trip. Douglas didn’t even have a chance to suggest any games; they were both watching the instruments and trying to avoid the worst of the weather the whole way. His throat had settled into a sharp, raw pain overnight and he’d desperately wanted some tea during the flight, but it had been too turbulent for Arthur to make anything hot. But at least he wasn’t really lying to Pete, not now. They were in Africa, even if it wasn’t Namibia. Only sheer luck, of course.

And he had to share a room with Arthur. Emily would accompany Douglas on every flight until her arts program started in a month or so, so he’d be sharing with Arthur the whole time. Carolyn categorically refused to share with Arthur, as usual. But he hadn’t slept well last night and he wasn’t looking forward to a night of Arthur trying to make him play charades or something equally useless. 

He groaned when he walked into their hotel room. One bed. He hated Carolyn’s scrimping.  

“Brilliant!” Of course sharing a bed was brilliant. Everything was brilliant. God, he was exhausted _and_  in a foul mood. 

“Which side do you want, Arthur?” he croaked. _Oh, stupid._  He should just have picked a side. Now he’d have to listen to a monologue about how both sides of the bed were brilliant, how each side had its own specific brilliance, and then there’d be a stringent field-testing in the form of endless bouncing on both sides. 

“Which side do _you_  want, Skip?” Arthur was standing in the door, looking unusually subdued. He wondered if he’d accidentally said that aloud instead of just thinking it. 

“I’ll, uh, just take this side. Next to the wall. Okay?” 

“Whichever you like. I know it was a really hard flight. Do you want to shower first?” 

“Yeah. Thanks.” He got his toilet kit out of his bag and went into the bathroom. He flipped open his phone and texted Pete while the shower warmed up. His throat was too sore to bother talking anyway, even if he had roaming. “Long flight, dangerous weather. But safe @ hotel. Turning in early, not sure when home. M.” He turned it off so he wouldn’t see if Pete replied. He was too tired to deal with anything right now. 

* * *

“And for you, sir?” The waiter hovered over him. He hadn’t really been able to focus on the menu. Arthur was telling Emily lots of brilliant stories about really brilliant things that had happened on really brilliant flights they’d had. He hadn’t had a chance to apologize to Carolyn. Douglas had been trying to shut Arthur up for the last five minutes. 

“Do you have chicken and rice? I can’t find it if you do.” 

“Of course, sir.” 

“That, then.” 

And he had a headache coming on. He was so tired he didn’t think he wanted to bother with eating. Which was ridiculous. Most of his meals came from MJN now. The company had been doing better lately, but that meant he’d been doing less and less van business. 

“Right, Skip?” 

“Sorry, what?” 

“I was telling Emily about how we figured out the otters that one time.” 

Oh. “Yeah.” 

“Arthur, you don’t have to speak all the time, do you?” Douglas sounded ready to throttle him. “I believe it’s not as necessary as breathing.” 

“Arthur,” Carolyn snapped. “Shut up.”

“Oh. Right, mum.” 

Their meals came. The chicken and rice looked greasy. He tried a mouthful. It was hideously greasy. And cold, and absolutely tasteless. He didn’t want to eat it, especially while his throat was killing him. He pushed it away and took another gulp of water. “Going up to bed,” he said, standing and throwing his napkin onto the plate. “Night, everyone.” 

“Skip, aren’t you hungry?” 

“Tired.” 

* * *

 

He was asleep when Arthur came in making a chinking sound, like china.  

“Skip, you awake? I brought you tea and biscuits cause you didn’t eat your dinner.” 

Martin sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Really?” He’d barely got the word out when a coughing fit overtook him. Damned throat. 

Arthur set the tray on the bureau and poured out two teas, one with lots of milk and sugar—Arthur’s—and one with all the slices of lemon squeezed to death into it, followed by about a cup of honey—had to be his. “Here you go, nice and hot with lemon and honey to help you feel better, and a big plate of biscuits to share.” 

Arthur handed Martin his tea and set the plate of biscuits in the middle of the bed. He brought his own tea over to the nightstand, kicked off his shoes and got onto the bed. Martin practically had his face in the mug, breathing in the steam. “Good, you’ve had some already. Do you feel better?” A corner of Martin’s mouth quirked up in a grin. 

He took a careful drink and said, “almost.” It was sweet and tart and tasted delicious. Not surprising, since he hadn’t really eaten anything since yesterday morning. Rocks would taste good about now. And it was soothing his throat. “Thanks, Arthur.” 

He breathed in more steam and drank half the tea. It was making him even sleepier. He thought about having one of the biscuits. Something solid. But it seemed like too much effort. He took a final gulp of the tea and set the mug on the nightstand. 

“Going back to sleep.” 

“You don’t want a biscuit, Skip?” 

“Not hungry,” he lied. He really wanted some, but he was too tired. “Put the plate on your nightstand so I don’t tip it over.” 

“Right-o.” Martin collapsed onto his pillows and tugged at the bedclothes. They seemed needlessly complicated. 

“Here, Skip, let me help you.” Martin could feel himself falling asleep while Arthur pulled the covers up around his neck. “There you go. Night, Skip.” 

He wasn’t sure if he said good night or only dreamed he did. 

* * *

In the dream, he was working under his van, trying to rehang the exhaust pipe so he didn’t have to spend money at the mechanics’. It was something simple, he’d done it so many times before, but he just couldn’t make it work. He’d been under the van for hours, working on this one simple thing and he couldn’t get it done.

He finally gave up and slid out. It had gotten dark. _Ridiculous. Useless. Can’t do anything right._ He went up to his room and got into bed and pulled the covers over his head. He should just give up. Nothing he did ever worked right.

* * *

He was lying up against something warm. A warm, solid wall. He felt sheltered and safe. Had he spent the night with Pete? He didn’t remember flying home. He rolled over to say good morning to Pete and saw Arthur instead. He groaned, and Arthur opened his eyes.

“Morning, Skip!” Of course Arthur woke up bright and cheerful. It was very Arthur. “How did you sleep? Do you feel better? Are you hungry? What can I get you?”

“Yeah, um,” his throat was raw. He tried to clear it and started coughing. He finally caught his breath and managed, “not hungry.” Liar. He was famished. Why was he lying about everything?

Arthur sat up and flung the covers back. The cold air rushed in at Martin and he shivered. “Are you cold, Skip? Do you want the extra blanket from the closet? Can I draw you a bath? You’re still looking a little peaky.”

“Tired.”

“Oh. Tell you what, I’ll get ready and you can have a bit of a lie-in, okay?”

“’Kay. Covers.” Arthur tucked the covers up to his chin.

He managed to ignore Arthur’s relentless cheeriness as he rustled around the room, washing up and dressing. He was half-tempted to cover his head with a pillow.

“You coming down to breakfast, Skip? Going to have a longer lie-in? Can I bring you anything to eat? You didn’t really eat anything last night. And we didn’t have anything on board.”

“Later, Arthur.” He wanted to say code red, but that seemed like something that Carolyn reserved for herself.

Arthur finally went away. And then he came back after breakfast to check on him. Martin groaned inwardly and snored, hoping he’d sound convincing and that Arthur would go away. Arthur came over and picked up the sheet to look at him. He mumbled and rolled over as if the cold air was bothering him. Arthur looked at him a few moments, then tucked the bedcovers around him again and went out, sounding like he was trying to be quiet.

Good. They were probably all going out to a zoo or the beach or some other touristy thing today, enjoying taking Emily around. He could just be by himself today. He wouldn’t have to worry about putting his foot in his mouth. Or not being invited.

He rolled over and looked at the ceiling. It was grotty, as usual for their hotels. And the room was a dingy beige. The whole place looked dirty. He thought he should probably get up and go get some breakfast, now that everyone was gone. But what if someone was still hanging around? He didn’t want to see any of them right now.

He woke up again in the middle of the afternoon, feeling hot and sticky. His throat was roaring with pain and another coughing fit caught him when he tried to roll over. He finally caught his breath and got himself sitting up. Last night’s tea was still on the nightstand. He wondered if Arthur had put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. He didn’t think he’d heard housekeeping knock or come in. He drank the tea and used the toilet. He went over to the bureau, looked at the plate of biscuits. Only half a biscuit left. With Arthur’s teeth marks on it. He ate it.

He went over to the window and pulled the drapes back. Bright and sunny. He could just see a sliver of beach far off in the distance. The beach in Accra was gorgeous. He should clean himself up, go for a walk, get a little fresh air, maybe go down to the beach and watch the surf. That’d do him good. He wanted to go. But he just didn’t have the energy. And what if he saw Douglas or Carolyn? They’d just snub him after his rudeness at dinner last night, and rightly so. It would be too humiliating. He poured the dregs from the teapot into a cup and downed it. Bitter. He decided he was still tired and collapsed onto the bed. He hadn’t felt at such loose ends since he’d been looking after his gran, more than half his life ago. Just a nap, he decided, then he’d get up for dinner.

* * *

“Skip? Skip, are you awake? Are you okay? Did you sleep all day?” Arthur bent over him, pulling the covers back, making him shiver. Carolyn loomed behind him, looking characteristically disapproving. The lamps were on and the drapes were still open. It was dark outside.

“So glad you could join the living, Martin,” Carolyn said, then turned on her heel. She went to the bureau and moved the tea things to one side, set down some plastic bags that had looked like shopping.

“Mum says you have to get up and take a shower. And change. And eat.” Arthur pulled the covers onto the floor, undoubtedly per Carolyn’s instruction. Martin managed to sit up without coughing. He felt marginally better after a day of sleep. He sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“Once you’re cleaned up, you’re going to have soup and crackers,” Carolyn said, scrunching up the empty bags and turning to look at him. “Arthur told me you wouldn’t eat the biscuits last night, so I hired a taxi to take me to the expat quarter. I got you soup, crackers, digestive biscuits, juice, oatmeal, and tea, and there are fresh pyjamas. Oh, and some surgical masks so you don’t give whatever you have to Douglas while you’re crammed into the flight deck tomorrow. I can’t blame you for not wanting to eat the abysmal food here, but you’re damned well going to eat something and make sure you’re fit to fly in the morning. Douglas will do the flight plan and whatever else it is you drivers do. Arthur’s in charge of making you eat soup tonight and oatmeal tomorrow morning, and he’ll make sure you show up on time and in uniform. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes.” It came out as a croak. He tried to clear his throat and started to cough again. His throat still felt like it had been scraped raw. He could feel Arthur and Carolyn watching him as he tried to catch his breath. He finally decided to nod instead of speaking.

“And whatever you have, don’t give it to Arthur.”

He nodded again.

“Good. Arthur, remember to ring my mobile if Martin gets any worse.”

“Yes, mum.”

“Good night, dear heart.”

“Night, mum.”

Arthur waited until Carolyn had left, then sat next to him on the bed. “Mum says you have to get up and take your shower right away. I’m not supposed to get distracted from making sure you get cleaned up. You really don’t look good, Skip. Do you need a hand with anything?”

He cleared his throat gingerly before speaking. “No, thanks.” Good, no coughing this time. “What time is it?”

“Around nine.”

“Missed dinner.”

“Didn’t miss much. We all tried the goat stew and it was terrible.” If Arthur thought it was terrible, it must have been deadly. “Do you want some biscuits or crackers before you take your shower?”

“No. Thanks.”

“Don’t hurry, I’m supposed to have housekeeping in to change the bed while you’re cleaning up. Here are the pyjamas.”

He took the plastic packet. The pyjamas looked really nice. A heavy navy silk. He’d have to pay Carolyn for them. And the food. Though he had no idea how he’d manage it. They’d been on standby and flying so often lately he hadn’t been able to book a van job in two weeks. He was down to his last few hundred quid and he had to pay his rent soon. _Stop thinking about it,_ he told himself. _Nothing you can do about it right now. Take a shower. Eat the food. Think about it later._

* * *

The shower was lovely. He’d been afraid the steam would make it even harder to breathe, but it was soothing, made his throat feel better. But Arthur wouldn’t let him out of the bathroom until housekeeping had changed the bed, seeming to think of it as a kind of hide-and-go-seek. He was barely able to stand by the time Arthur opened the door. He stumbled toward the bed and fell into it. Lovely, fresh, cool sheets.

“Okay, Skip, it’s time for soup and crackers. Do you want some biscuits? Maybe some tea, too? Oh, ‘tea too!’ It sort of rhymes, doesn’t it, but not in a really rhyme-y way.”

“Just soup and crackers. Just a little.”

“Mum says you have to finish the whole can and eat at least ten crackers. She wrote it down so I’d remember.”

He did feel a little hungry after his long sleep and shower. The pyjamas were absolutely lovely. They felt like cool water slipping along his skin. He might as well enjoy them while he could. He decided he was done worrying for the night.

Arthur was arranging crackers on a plate and humming—at least Arthur would claim it was humming—while the soup heated in the tiny microwave that let the hotel call the room a kitchenette. He lay back and closed his eyes while he waited. His thoughts drifted to Pete. He’d have to check his texts in the morning. He didn’t understand how Pete could be so easy to talk to, so easy to be with, and then fuck him like he’d bought him. But he hadn’t been with anyone in a long time. Maybe he’d just forgotten what it was like. Maybe he’d gotten prudish after so long alone. Maybe Pete had a bigger appetite than he’d expected. Maybe Pete really, really liked him and wanted to move their relationship along really fast. Hah. But whatever it was, he had to get a grip on himself. He liked Pete. He got along with him and didn’t want to screw up their relationship before it had begun. Any more than he’d already screwed it up.

“Ready, Skip?” Arthur was setting the soup and crackers on his nightstand. He must have nodded off. “I brought you over a juice box while the soup was heating up. Mum said she was looking for apple or orange or grape or pineapple or something normal like that, but the normalest thing she could find was mango. She said they had all sorts of flavors like mango and coconut and guava and banana and even breadfruit and none of the normal flavors, and it took her the longest time to decide on the mango. And the soup is chicken noodle, so that’s normal, even though it’s out of a can and not homemade. And I don’t recognize the brand, so that made me a little nervous about giving it to you, what with you being sick and all, but mum said it would be fine. But she found Jacob’s crackers and McVitie’s biscuits, just like we buy at home, so those are definitely okay. Do you need help with anything? Do you want tea? Biscuits? A napkin? Well, we don’t have napkins, but we have towels cause it’s a hotel, and we can always get more towels cause it’s a hotel—”

“All set, thanks,” he croaked. Arthur would go on all night if he didn’t cut him off, get him focused on something else. “Why don’t you see what’s on TV?”

“Right-o! Oh, I love watching TV wherever we go. You never know what sort of thing you’ll see. It’s just like going to a country you’ve never been to before and finding out what’s there. Well, you know that there’ll be people and buildings and roads and everything, just like at home—”

“Oh, turn back one.” Arthur had a weakness for soap operas and it looked like he’d just flicked past one. Yes, that did it. Arthur was sitting cross-legged on the bed and leaning forward eagerly, sucked into the story already.

Martin smiled. Arthur took such enjoyment in every little thing he fancied. He slowly made his way through the soup and crackers and juice, watching Arthur watch the TV, immersed in the ridiculous story, even though he’d surely never seen that particular soap before.

He finally finished everything and set the dishes on the nightstand. A commercial had just come on. “Arthur, is the alarm set?”

“Yup, I have it set for five-thirty.”

“I’m going to go back to sleep, then. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Skip! You know I love to help.”

“You do a good job of it. Night, Arthur.”

* * *

He felt rested and well in the morning. He took the bathroom first while Arthur made a bowl of highly-sugared oatmeal for him. He ate it and drank the tea Arthur had made for him, then put on his uniform and packed.

Douglas was in the pilot’s lounge, actually working on the flight plan. Emily wasn’t with him. He looked up at Martin, then back down at the paperwork. “Mask,” he said, ticking a box.

“I had a little food poisoning, Douglas,” he said, sitting down and trying to read the flight plan upside down, ignoring the voice in the back of his head calling him a liar. “I’m not contagious. Good morning to you, too, by the way.”

Douglas looked at him over his glasses. “Are you _certain_ you’re not contagious?”

“Yes. I know exactly what I ate that caused the problem.”

“You weren’t showing any sign of food poisoning on Sunday.” Doubt dripped from every syllable.

“That’s because I was long done throwing up. Can we please just talk about the flight?”

“I don’t want to catch anything. I certainly don’t want Emily to catch anything.” Douglas was double-checking his work.

“Would you prefer if I rode in the hold?”

The corners of Douglas’ mouth twitched. “Frankly—”

“Fine. I’ll just do the walkaround, then.” He snatched up his flight bag and stalked out.

Douglas thought that Martin still looked ill. But Arthur had phoned to say that Martin had eaten the soup and crackers last night, and a big bowl of oatmeal this morning. And that Douglas’ new pyjamas, which Emily had gotten him as a gift after he’d picked them out at a street vendor’s cart yesterday, had fit him pretty well. He disliked owing Carolyn a favor for getting the food. Owing Carolyn a favor was very inconvenient. He would have gone himself, but it would have made too long a day for Emily. Not to mention the fact that Carolyn had kept the change: two hundred euros went very far in Ghana and she was at least fifty pounds up on the deal. But the important thing was that Martin was back to his usual, snappish self. That certainly meant he was feeling better. Which made Douglas feel better. He signed the flight plan and decided on their first game: movies beginning with Q. He gathered the paperwork up and left the room with a spring in his step, mentally reviewing the list of “Q” movies.


	12. Saturday Night, Date Night

Saturday night. Date night. Martin was looking forward to seeing Pete again. Pete had texted him back right away when he messaged that they’d landed safely back home. And they’d texted back and forth all week since he’d gotten back from Ghana. It was lovely having someone to talk to, even if it was just texting.

Martin: “What r u doing today?”

Pete: “Mtg w client. She’s insane & rude. Wants 2-storey waterfall in bath. Insists we agreed. Shrieking.”

Martin: “Insane? Rude? Shrieking? Think she flew w us last month.”

Pete: “Come & tke her back, PLZ!”

He’d gone without breakfast and dinner since Tuesday so he could bring a bottle of wine. They were double-dating with two of Pete’s oldest friends who were visiting from London for the weekend, eating at Pete’s flat again. He needed to ask Pete more about his cooking, find out if he liked to cook a fancy meal for himself or just when somebody else was there. Douglas liked to cook for just himself as well as for guests. He loved hearing Douglas tell about how he’d once made a lovely meal for twenty people out of whatever was in the pantry on two hours’ notice. _Stop thinking about Douglas. What is the matter with you? Douglas doesn’t want you. Pete’s interested in you. You should be thinking about Pete, for God’s sake._

And with other people there, it would be friendly and low pressure. He wouldn’t have to worry he’d act like he had last Saturday, when he’d nearly gone off his head about a little rough-and-tumble.

Michael let him borrow one of his blazers so that he wouldn’t be wearing the same thing three weeks in a row. They weren’t the same size, but it didn’t look bad on him, he thought. Michael’s family were well off and it was a really high-quality tweed. It looked sharp with his white shirt and dark jeans. The sleeves were a little long and the shoulders were a little big, but he thought it made him look like he’d lost some weight, that he was newly trim. Of course, that was just wishful thinking. It make him look like a boy playing dress-up in his dad’s clothes.

He felt really nervous as he stepped out of the lift at Pete’s floor, though. The last time he’d even met a boyfriend’s friends was the last time he’d had a serious relationship, about ten years ago. That was just before he’d failed his first CPL, back when everyone he knew—and he—still thought he had a successful future to look forward to.

“Don’t you look handsome,” Pete gushed, kissing him on both cheeks and slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Come in and meet Will and George.” Will and George turned out to be _very_  much the urbane Londoners, thinking the rest of the world beneath their notice. Unless it was Paris or Rome or Tokyo or New York City. Martin felt awkward, like the slow brother being allowed to sit with the big kids. But the wine helped. Not his, of course. Pete had immediately put his into the far corner of the kitchen counter. His paled in comparison to the two mixed cases of lush wines that Will and George had brought from Pete’s favorite shop in London. “So he doesn’t suffer a drought along with his self-imposed exile up here in the middle of nowhere,” George said, eyeing Martin over the rim of his glass.

“Honestly,” Will said, nudging Martin’s arm, “we never thought Pete would really leave London, though he’d talked about it for almost two years. He’s got enough experience and name recognition to open his own firm there. Why live up here in the weeds when you can have world-class clients knocking on your door? No offense about the weeds, I hope,” Will finished, winking at him.

“No, no. None taken,” Martin said. He was glad that he could say _something_ in the middle of the three-way conversation. Will had moved from the large sofa, where George still sat—he’d forgotten the sofa’s name, it was by a famous twentieth-century designer—to sit right next to him on the oversized chair, the sofa’s little brother. Now that he was visiting Pete’s flat a second time and felt a little familiar with it, it struck him as sterile. The building had been a factory, and the people who’d rehabbed it had left the concrete and brick walls so that you could see its history. But Pete’s furnishings were bland and cold, like something he’d picked out of a catalog just to have something to put into the space. There wasn’t a personal item to be seen anywhere, not a painting, not a photo, not even a vase.

“And having to go without the shopping,” Will added, interrupting his train of thought.

“I can hear you talking about me, you know,” Pete said as the steam of the rice for the paella drew obediently into the impressive stove vent. “That’s what happens in an open-space loft. No secrets.” Martin had been a little disappointed that it would be a rice dish for dinner. He was as sick of rice as he was of pasta. But paella had seafood in it. His mouth watered thinking about it. And it smelled delicious.

“And I wanted a change of pace,” Pete continued. “I was tired of doing big projects. I wanted to do small, intimate work,” Pete said. “Houses. This area has hundreds of projects just waiting to be done. If I can just convince the thick-headed owners to do them.”

“Isn’t that what I said, George, that’s just what I said.” Will nudged Martin’s elbow again, almost sloshing his wine. “Those provincial lords of their tiny little manors won’t understand just what Pete can do for them. I told you he’d have a hard time up here, didn’t I, George?”

“Yes, you did, love. More than once. More than several times, in fact. But why don’t we stop teasing Pete and find out about his new beau? Marvin, is it?”

“Marvin is an _odd_ name. Is it a family name?” Will asked.

“Um, no, it’s Martin, with a ‘t,’” he corrected. Will and George looked a little put out that they’d been wrong. “Sounds the same, though, doesn’t it,” he said, taking a gulp of wine to cover his nerves. It was really, really good wine. He didn’t know anything about wine, but this was really delicious. He suspected the other bottles they’d brought were equally good, if not better. “What is this wine again?” The last thing he wanted to talk about was himself. Will and George were persistent, and they’d ask him question after question until his whole ridiculous life was laid bare.

“Oh, this is just the Biddenden Ortega,” Will said, checking the bottle. “It was only twelve pounds, but it’s really lovely, isn’t it, for an English wine? So light and fun! You could drink it all day. And it goes beautifully with the patatas.” Will popped another herbed baked potato slice into his mouth. Martin took the opportunity to have a stick of ham with honey. He’d had a couple of the patatas, just to be polite, but he’d focused on the ham sticks. He wasn’t getting enough protein. He could only afford eggs about once a month now. Odd combination, ham and honey. It went well together, though, the salty and the sweet.

“Though the wine doesn’t go as well with the ham, I think,” Will said, looking at him.

“The ham is good, though,” Martin said, quickly swallowing his mouthful. “Really nice with the honey.”

“Well, it should be Iberico ham and Spanish orange honey, of course. But you can only get Serrano ham and local honey up here, I suppose,” Will said. “The shopping, Pete,” he called over.

“I know, I know. Not nearly as refined as your palates. But you won’t leave hungry, I promise. Will, refill me, won’t you?”

“I’ll leave a stone heavier thanks to your cooking, I’m sure,” Will said, going over and topping up Pete’s glass. “Oops, have to start another one.” He started pulling bottles out of the case and setting them on the counter.

“So you’re a pilot, Martin,” George said, enunciating the ‘t’ very clearly and still looking a little cross.

“Um, yes. Tiny charter company. Just one jet, as a matter of fact.” He giggled. Oh, he shouldn’t have drunk the wine so quickly on his empty stomach.

“So they have, what, lots of prop planes? For flight enthusiasts or something?” George asked, sparing a nod for the wine that Will showed him.

“Um, no, it’s, um, just the one aeroplane. That’s it. The owner got it as part of her divorce settlement. The company’s called MJN, for ‘my jet now.’”

George was frowning at him. “One plane, even a jet, can’t possibly make a profit. What type of jet is it?”

“Lockheed McDonnell 312,” Martin answered quickly, trying to think of some way to turn the conversation elsewhere. The discussion about his work was going downhill rapidly.

George had his phone out, was no doubt looking up the plane. “Good Lord, that thing’s old,” he said, his eyebrows drawn together. “It still flies?”

“Yes. Yes, it does.” He decided to try looking put out. Though he wasn’t sure if he was managing after three glasses of wine.

George showed his phone to Will, who’d just sat down again after topping everyone up. Martin took another mouthful of his wine. When would the dinner be ready? Then they could talk about that. “Oh, my Lord,” Will said, then grabbed George’s phone and stared at it. “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t want to fly in that. There must be a newer model. Can’t she trade it in for a newer model?”

“It’s her jet, she can do what she wants with it.” Martin set down his wineglass rather harder than he’d meant to. “It’s my job to fly the aeroplane, not to tell Carolyn what to do with it.”

“MJN?” George had taken his phone back from Will and was looking something else up. Then he laughed out loud, stomping his foot and laughing and doubling over. He must have found the website. Martin felt defeated. So much for any self-respect among Pete’s friends. Or with Pete.

Will had taken the phone again and was staring, open-mouthed. George was still doubled up laughing.

“Pete, have you looked up Marvin’s company’s website?” Will called over to Pete.

“Martin, with a ‘t,’” he said automatically.

“Just a tick, the dinner’s almost done,” Pete called back over the noise of the cooking vent and the seafood sizzling in the pan.

Will was hurrying over to show the phone to Pete. George had sat up and was trying to stop laughing. Then he looked at Martin and doubled over again. Pete and Will were falling all over each other, they were laughing so hard.

Well, there went the absolute last _shred_ of his self-respect. He should just leave now, before things got any more humiliating. He stood up and smoothed the front of Michael’s jacket, then headed over to say goodbye to Pete. Better to leave than to be dumped again, and over as something as ridiculous as working for MJN.

“Martin,” Pete said, wiping tears from his eyes and holding up the phone for him to see. “Look, someone’s hacked your site. That’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time. Look at those little cartoon aeroplanes!”

Oh. Pete thought that wasn’t really their site. It was a terrible site, he knew, and it would drive business away if anyone actually looked at it. But Arthur had worked hard on it. And Carolyn obviously didn’t mind it or she would have had Douglas fix it, or at least take it down. But Pete thought it wasn’t real, that someone had vandalized them and left this instead.

“Um, oh, God, that’s ridiculous. I’ll, um, have to tell Carolyn. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

Will and George left around eleven, about an hour and a half after they’d finished the flan and coffee. Pete kept his arm around Martin’s shoulders as they all said goodnight, so he knew that Pete wanted him to stay a while longer.

“They can take a little getting used to,” Pete said once the lift doors had closed on Will and George.

“No, no. They were lovely.”

“Liar.” Pete pulled him close and kissed him, sliding his arms around Martin’s waist. Martin let his eyes close and his mind drift. He’d drunk much more wine than he’d meant to again tonight. Pete was holding him, kissing him. He slung his arms around Pete’s neck and opened his mouth to let in Pete’s insistent tongue. His cock was hardening rapidly. They stood kissing for a while, Pete’s hands roaming up and down his body.

Pete pulled away after a moment. “It’s our third date,” he said.

“Oh? So an hour over coffee was our first date? You’re counting that?”

“I’m counting that.”

Martin giggled back at him and they kissed again, Pete’s fingers tangling in his hair.

“Hey! It takes me a long time to get my hair to stay down.”

“Too bad. I like your curls. You should grow your hair out.” Pete ducked his head and started kissing under Martin’s chin and along his throat. Martin groaned. He loved having his throat touched, and being kissed there…

“So, third date,” Pete said again, the words humming at the hollow just above Martin’s collarbone.

“Yes,” Martin said, feeling breathless. “We just agreed.”

“You know what that means, right?” The hand at his waist had moved down and was wiggling into his trousers and inside his pants. Pete’s fingers were dipping into the crack of his arse. He gasped a little, surprised at how warm Pete’s hand was.

“Mm.” Pete was kissing him again, his fingers exploring lower. It was very distracting. So long since he’d been touched so intimately. “What, what is it?”

“Third date means staying over.”

Between the food and the wine and the petting, he felt like he was floating, drifting in warm, tropical water, everything in slow motion. He wasn’t sure what Pete was saying, but Pete seemed to be waiting for a response. “Mm.”

“Do you have to fly tomorrow?”

“Mm, oh!” Pete had just dipped his finger into Martin’s opening.

“Do you, Martin?”

“Do I what?”

“Have to fly tomorrow?”

“No. Um, no.”

Pete smiled. “Good.” Pete started walking him backward through the flat, shifting his hand to cup his buttock. “So you’ll stay.”

“Stay?”

“The night.”

“The night?” He’d clearly missed something.

“Third date. You generally stay the night.” Pete had walked him around the dividing wall, then stopped. He pulled his hand out of Martin’s trousers, then hooked a leg behind his knees and pulled. Martin’s legs went out from under him and he fell, hard, almost to the floor, the wind knocked out of him. He was on Pete’s bed, a duvet-covered mattress on a minimalist, modernist platform thing. The black wooden platform stuck out about six inches past the mattress and was cutting into his calves. He dragged in a lungful of air and shifted his legs away from the sharp edge. Pete was hard in his trousers, right at Martin’s eye level. He remembered how long and veiny and thick Pete was, how strong his musk had been.

“Unless you’ve decided you don’t want to be with the other person, that is,” Pete finished.

Pete was standing above him, waiting for an answer. He didn’t remember any sort of a rule about the third date. But why sould he know about these things when nobody ever wanted to be with him. Except Pete. He couldn’t let this go wrong. He took another deep breath, trying to calm himself. He couldn't wind himself up like he had last week. It would be humiliating—and hard to explain—if he were sick again.

“Of course I want to stay. I wasn’t sure if you were going to ask me.” _Doesn’t matter if it’s not_ exactly _true. As long as I don’t put my foot in my mouth, it’ll be fine._ He leaned into Pete, butting his head against Pete’s hand and thigh. Pete started playing with his hair.

“That’s good. I’m glad.” Pete knelt down between his legs and brushed his forehead and his mouth so gently with his lips, then started sliding the jacket off his shoulders.

“Um. I have to, um, leave by six-thirty, though.”

Pete drew back and looked at him. His eyebrows were drawn together and he was frowning. He laid the jacket aside and leaned forward again, starting on Martin’s belt. “And why is that? You already said you’re not flying tomorrow,” he said, not meeting Martin’s eyes.

“I, um, have a sort of a second job.” Pete asking him to stay had been a surprise. He really didn’t want to go into this right now.

“An airline captain with a second job?” Pete laughed and looked up at him again as he opened Martin’s belt and flies. “Are you amassing funds against the apocalypse? Planning to start a charitable foundation? Or paying off huge gambling debts to dangerous bookies?”

“No, um, you see, I need a second job to make ends meet sometimes. Um, most times. Um, all the time, really.” _Just shut up, will you?_ What he wouldn’t give for a little of Douglas’ skill at bending facts into convenient half-truths. But at least he hadn’t yet admitted that, like the idiot he was, he worked for free.

“Oh.” Pete was unbuttoning Martin’s shirt. The frown was back. “So they’re not in good financial health, after all.”

“No, not really. I guess they’re more of a vanity firm.” Good Lord, why had he said that? He’d never thought about MJN or Carolyn that way before. He was grateful to Carolyn for letting him fly, even if not being paid made his life really difficult. He loved flying Gerti and even learning from Douglas—though he’d never admit it. And he’d come to think of Arthur as a sort of a younger brother, God help him. Besides, not getting paid was his own fault. Though it was certainly the only thing that kept MJN paying enough of its bills to keep going.

Pete had pulled off Martin’s shirt and undershirt and was kissing him again. Pete’s lips were warm and soft and his tongue was in Martin’s mouth. Then he suddenly tweaked Martin’s nipples. Martin gasped and jumped. “Sensitive?” Pete asked, leaning in to kiss him again. “Let’s try something else.”

Pete was trailing his fingers lightly down his abdomen now. He groaned, feeling his stomach muscles flutter under Pete’s touch. 

“Let’s get you out of these annoying clothes,” Pete decided, his hands on Martin’s chest, pushing him down onto the bed. “Shoes.” Pete took his shoes off and set them neatly beside Michael’s jacket.

Martin lay back as gracefully as he could, propping himself up on his elbows. “Let me see _you_ undress. I want to watch you.” He wanted to watch Pete strip the way he’d stripped for Pete last Saturday. The thought of it made his breath come short and he felt sweat prickling at his scalp, armpits, and groin, desire blooming low in his gut.

“Time enough for that. Look at you, all flushed and breathless already.” Pete leaned back on his heels and tugged at Martin’s trousers. Martin raised his hips so Pete could slide them down, then sat back and raised his feet. Pete pulled off the trousers and set them neatly next to the other clothes. “Pants,” Pete said, already pulling at the waistband. Martin repeated the maneuver, his hard cock springing free.

“Oh, yes.” Pete took the head of Martin’s cock between thumb and forefinger, halting its sway. He slid his thumb over the slit, slicking the head with the precome. Martin groaned and fell back onto the bed. He couldn’t remember the last time someone else had touched his cock.

“You’re all ready, aren’t you? Positively gagging for it. If you were a girl, you’d be sopping wet by now, just ready for me to slide into you. Are you ready for me to slide in, Martin?”

Martin dragged his head up. Pete had been saying something, but he hadn’t registered what it was. Again. “I want to see you,” he said, his words low in his throat. “I want you to strip for me. Show me how beautiful you are.”

Pete let out a sharp bark of laughter. “I’m not beautiful, Martin. You’re the beautiful one. Are you ready for me to show you how beautiful _you_ are?” Pete cupped Martin’s balls, then brushed his fingers against Martin’s opening.

Martin gasped and arched off the bed. He tried to get his mouth moving, but his brain had slowed to a crawl. Pete was pressing on his chest, wanting him to lie back down again. He let himself fall back onto the bed. “Show me,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he’d said the words properly. He tugged at Pete’s sleeve to show him he wanted him to take his clothes off.

“I’ll show you.” Pete got up and moved out of Martin’s field of vision. Martin let his eyes close, feeling his heart pound against his ribs and his blood course beneath his skin. He heard Pete moving around for a while.

“Come back,” Martin said. He felt Pete get onto the bed, grip his shoulder.

“I’m back. Slide up to me.”

Martin opened his eyes and rolled onto his stomach, feeling warm and heavy with desire. Pete lay naked at the head of the bed, propped up on one elbow against the pillows, patting the sheets. He’d dimmed the lights and pulled the duvet back as much as he could with Martin lying on it. He looked gorgeous in the low light, more like an actor or a model than an architect. Martin crawled up to him, cutting his eyes away from Pete’s cock. It was fully erect and dark, the mushroom-shaped head sharply silhouetted against Pete’s pale skin, even in the low light. It was so massive it made him think of a standing stone. He shivered a little.

“Wanted you to strip for me,” he said, still on all fours and lowering his head to kiss Pete.

“I stripped. You just weren’t watching.”

“Tease.”

“I’ll tease you.”

Martin giggled as Pete nibbled at his lower lip. Pete parted Martin’s lips with his tongue, then slid inside his mouth. His fingers drifted lightly down Martin’s throat and chest, down his stomach and through his embarrassingly ginger hair, and he ringed Martin’s cock and started pumping him. Martin let himself collapse back onto the bed, making a sound low in his throat.

“You like that, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” He was panting and his cock felt gorgeously hot and heavy.

“You ready for more?"

“Oh, God, yes.” Pete was really good at this. But it had been an awfully long time since someone had touched him. Maybe Pete was ordinary. Or maybe he was really terrible. But he really didn’t care. His whole body was tensing and his balls were drawing up already.

Pete took his hand away and Martin groaned. He’d been just this close to coming.

Pete had him flipped over before he’d even managed to open his eyes. His left arm was pinned under his chest and Pete was lying on his back, his weight pinning him down, before he could manage to get his arm free. Pete had both knees between his thighs, and was shoving his legs apart.

“What, what are you doing?” Martin said. He was trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

“You said you wanted more. This is more.”

Pete had gotten his thighs apart and was holding his legs spread wide with his own. Pete pushed himself up onto an elbow and Martin got his left arm free now that the weight was off him. He felt Pete’s hand ghosting over his balls and he gasped at how good it felt. Did Pete want to reach under him, want him to finish in this position for some reason? Then he felt Pete's cock nudging at his opening.

“Jesus! No!”

“‘No?’ Very funny, Martin.”

“I’m not ready. Stop it!”

“What do you mean, you’re not ready? You’re as ready as you’re ever going to be.” Pete dropped his full weight onto Martin’s back again, knocking the air out of him. By the time he’d gotten a breath, both his wrists were above his head, pinioned in Pete’s hand.

“You’re huge!” He gasped. “And I’m not stretched out.”

Pete chuckled. “Glad you finally mentioned my size. I’m rather proud of it. And you’ll be stretched out in a minute, believe me. Stop clenching.” Pete had shifted onto one hip and was shoving his cock against his opening.

Martin gathered his energy and bucked, almost managing to dislodge Pete. Pete went still above him, feeling like a dead weight on Martin’s back. They lay panting a moment.

“I thought you wanted this.” Pete’s voice was tight. “You run hot and cold. You’re awfully hard to read, Martin.”

 _Jesus. Just get over yourself. Say something before he chucks you out._ “I do. I do want it. It’s just. Sudden.”

Pete chuckled, his breath hot against the sweat on his neck, his stomach slapping in the sweat pooling in the small of his back as he laughed.

“How sweet. Don’t worry about _that.”_ Pete was stroking his hair now, stroking his face. He leaned down and kissed the side of Martin’s mouth. “It’s okay to be shy. Just tell me. Just don’t keep changing your mind, though. It’s confusing. Difficult.” Martin sighed out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Pete was still tense above him. Pete wanted to be with him but he was giving off mixed signals, just like he’d been afraid he’d do. Martin knew he wasn’t likeable to begin with—experience had shown him that—and he was making it difficult for the one person who was interested in him. _Yes, well, that’s why people don’t like you. You bring nothing to a relationship and then you make it hard for them to be with you. Useless._ He felt his stomach knot.

Pete rolled off him with a sigh.

“All right. Just go to sleep.”

“Sorry,” he managed. He was suddenly cold, the sweat cooling where Pete had lain on top of him. Pete was flipping the sheets, straightening them and pulling them up. Pete flopped onto his side, checked the alarm clock, turned off the light, and grunted and settled.

“Sorry.” His voice was tight and wobbly.

“Go to sleep, Martin.”

“Sorry.” Pete didn’t answer.

He listened for a long time, until Pete’s breathing softened and slowed into sleep. He’d hoped it would be different by now, that he would have learned enough to be normal, to have a relationship. But no. Two strikes. He’d lost his head last week and again tonight. Pete didn’t even bother to get mad at him this time. He’d just given up and told him to go to sleep. Pete was probably just too tired to throw him out.

Martin rolled onto his back. He kept trying to make his life work and it never did. That wasn’t going to change. He was past the point of being able to change. He’d been trying to have a decent relationship with someone since he was a teenager and he kept making the same mistakes. He’d wanted to be able to do this correctly for once, just once, but it was more than he could manage.

But he didn’t want to be alone. If Pete decided to keep him, he’d stay. He wouldn’t refuse him again. He’d do whatever Pete wanted. Until Pete got fed up with him. Then he’d have to go back to being alone. He hoped that wouldn’t happen too soon. He watched the moon move through its arc, occasionally watched Pete sleep.

 


End file.
